


You Look Like a Slap in the Face (Excuse Me While I Pick My Jaw Up)

by indieninja92



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Basic Bitch is a Gender Neutral Term Right?, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Crowley Was a Punk, Face-Fucking, Face-Lovemaking, Gratuitous References to the History of Punk Rock in Britain, He Just Wasn't Very Good at It, Humiliation, Literal Bondage Trousers, M/M, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Safewords, Song Lyric Title Like the Basic Bitch I Am, Spanking, Very Polite Face-Fucking, but like, unbeta'd we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27218674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/pseuds/indieninja92
Summary: London, 1977 - Aziraphale is enjoying a quiet night in when he's rudely interrupted. Naturally, he wants an apology - and he's not afraid to work for it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 95
Kudos: 289
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	You Look Like a Slap in the Face (Excuse Me While I Pick My Jaw Up)

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends, here's some porn! i think ive tagged everything relevant but as ever, if there's anything in this that you think needs tagged then just let me know. otherwise, rest assured that everything is enthusiastically consented to throughout and then followed up with some cosy cuddles and aftercare. also, u know that post thats like, i cant pad out my economics essay with gratuitous hand-jobs? i think i accidentally padded out my gratuitous porn with a small essay on national identity...
> 
> there is one use of a safeword, but it's a 'hang on we need to pause for a second for logistical reasons' use rather than a 'no thank you' moment.
> 
> title is from 'ragin' by pillow queens, an absolutely banging irish band. listen to 'gay girls' and see the face of god. finally, this is unbeta'd - if you see any typo-sized errors, feel free to let me know in the comments.
> 
> im on tumblr at [indieninja92](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/) \- come and say hello! :D

_London, 13th December 1977_

It was late, late enough that even the sprawl of London had fallen largely quiet. Not entirely, of course – there hadn't been a truly quiet night in London since King Alfred put paid to the Great Heathen Army and took the city back for the English. Aziraphale, tucked up in the flat above the bookshop and thinking the kind of mumbly, back-of-the-brain thoughts that suited this time of night, wondered if the two were related. If there was something about Englishness that resisted peace and quiet.

It wasn't the usual stereotype, he knew, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt like he was onto something. For all their stiff upper lip, Merrie England, nation-of-shopkeepers reputation, there was a wild streak in the English that took very little encouraging to rear its head.

Aziraphale snuggled down into the corner of his sofa, chewing the thought over. It all came down to stories, of course. It always did, with humans. For as long as there had been countries, he reflected, people had made up stories about what it meant to belong to them. Told often enough and with enough enthusiasm, the stories took on a life of their own, existing quite independently from the actual behaviours or beliefs of the people who told them, and usually in stark contrast to the stories told about the group by outsiders – just ask the Irish what Englishness entails.

And riddled through these stories like holes in cheese was a whole host of mythic heroes who embodied Belonging like no real person ever could. It was funny how so many of those heroes were rebels, now Aziraphale thought of it. A necessary precaution, he supposed. If your national identity was too much rooted in maintaining the status quo, you risked fracturing your sense of self every time the nation was forced to change. Better to make space for the rabble-rousers, the protestors, the disruptors. Then, when the dust had settled, their efforts could be safely incorporated into the myth of history.

But how different those rebels were from country to country – and how revealing those differences! The Americans, of course, imagined themselves as the scrappy underdog, wielding the duel pistols (or, more recently, assault rifles) of God and capitalism in the name of protecting 'me and mine'. Meanwhile, the French preferred a rebel driven by righteous indignation, righting wrongs in the name of the greater good, fierce and proud and ruthless. All very upright and honourable, Aziraphale was sure – but not much fun.

That, Aziraphale thought, pleased to have finally come to the point, was the crux of it. The thing that set the English rebel apart – a sense of humour. The English rebel hero was laughing and loud-mouthed, cocking a snook to the people in power, as much concerned with enjoying themselves as any noble cause. In fact, there needn't be any broader reason for the rebellion at all. Rule-breaking held its own pleasure – there was a delight in doing what one ought not, simply because one ought not to do it.

Of course, national myth was a two-sided coin. If the laughing English rebel was one face, then the other was the stern upholder of the status quo. The net curtain twitcher, the Daily Mail letter-writer, the bloody fist of empire in the fine white gloves of moral superiority. No wonder the English preferred their rebels to be fools and tricksters – it would be altogether too dangerous for a country like England to valourise anyone who might constitute a serious threat to the establishment.

Aziraphale sighed, looking morosely into the bottom of his cocoa mug. Nothing like the contemplation of a thousand years of imperialist violence to put a damper on an evening.

A sudden crashing sound jerked him out of his thoughts. He bolted upright, heart hammering. The sound had come from the street outside, he was sure. He waited, listening hard. Nothing. A bin falling over, perhaps? The weather had been miserable all day, and though the rain had eased in the last few hours it was still gusty enough outside that a rogue wheelie bin might have-

Another crash, louder now, and to Aziraphale's horror he realised it was coming from downstairs. Someone – or something – was slamming against the door of the bookshop. He didn't have time to think – there was a bang that shook the building, and he knew with sudden, awful certainty that the doors had flung open and allowed the intruder inside. He shot to his feet, clattering his mug down onto the coffee table, briefly grateful he hadn't taken off his shoes. Principality or not, it didn't seem dignified to scare off a would-be burglar in his socks.

He could hear voices as he made his way down the narrow staircase and into the back room of the shop. No, not voices – just the one voice, apparently trying to... sing?

All at once, his sense of urgency dissipated, replaced by a very familiar exasperation. He'd know that warbling in a crowd of thousands.

He stepped out of the back room and stood, hands on his hips, mustering every ounce of his angelic fury. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Crowley span on his heel, arms trailing like a drunken marionette. “Aziraphale!” he cried, as if genuinely surprised to see him.

He lurched forwards only to tip into a bookshelf as his balance escaped him. A slew of books fell to the floor, knocked by a rogue elbow. Crowley didn't mind. He beamed at Aziraphale, stupid and beery.

“There'ssss sssomethin' wrong with y'door, angel. 's OK though, got it open venturely... A'venture... Rev'rentially? Whassit?”

“Eventually,” Aziraphale bit out, marching over to where the demon was belatedly trying to pick up the fallen books. With vicious efficiency, he scooped up the books and placed them back on the shelf. Crowley grinned at him and was met with a hard stare. “You blew it off the hinges.”

Crowley's grin didn't waver. “Wha...?”

“My door! You blew my door off its hinges, Crowley. You break in here and start crashing about-”

Crowley held up his palms in defence. “Hey, c'mon, don't be like that! Issss fine. I'll fix it. Clicky click, fixy fix.”

Aziraphale scoffed. He gestured towards the remains of the door with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “By all means, give it your best shot.”

With an effort, Crowley pushed himself upright. He managed to get himself to something like standing and staggered to the doorway where he stopped, swaying slightly. Slowly, he raised his hand, fingers poised. Unfortunately, the lines of communication between his brain and his hand weren't what they used to be.

“Come on then,” said Aziraphale after a pregnant pause. “Clicky click.”

“You're... very rude,” Crowley mumbled. He tried again and winced as his fingers offered up a weak, muffled thud. On his third attempt, he managed something like a click. Crowley threw up his hands in triumph. “Ha! Ssseee?! Did it. Not ssso bad, 'f I sssay ssso m'self.”

Aziraphale, watching the display from an icy distance, was not impressed. “Yes, dear. Bravo. Of course, you did neglect to perform the actual miracle portion of the routine.”

Crawley's eyes dragged themselves round to the state of the door, still slumped in pieces in the frame. He pulled a face.

“I'm...” he started, but the thought slipped away from him.

“You're drunk,” said Aziraphale. He clicked his fingers and with a burst of heavenly power, the door was intact once more.

Crowley nodded philosophically. “I am, at that.”

Aziraphale busied himself tidying up the worst of the mess Crowley had left in his wake, ignoring Crowley with the determination of one who knows he is the injured party and is not going to give the title up without a fight. Crowley didn't mind. He maneuvered his way to the till, leaning against it with what might have been insouciant cool if he'd been about 30 degrees more upright. 

“I was at a gig,” said Crowley as Aziraphale set a pile of books down on the counter beside him, pointedly not making eye contact.

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “I didn't know they did gigs in breweries.”

“Wha's that ssssupposed to mean?”

“It means you stink,” said Aziraphale bluntly. “You smell like you've been hosed with Carling. And for God's sake, what are you wearing?”

Crowley looked down at himself with a self-satisfied smile. “You like it?”

“No. It's ridiculous.”

“You didn't even look!”

Aziraphale tutted, and gave Crowley a cursory look up and down. Crowley was clean shaven, forgoing the moustache he'd sported for the first few years of the decade. This was apparently the only sensible decision he'd made when getting dressed that evening.

The outfit was outrageous. Big, black boots, pair of astonishingly tight trousers covered in zips and straps that seemed to serve no real purpose, a too-small t-shirt with something obscene on the front, and a leather jacket that Aziraphale recognised from Crowley's dalliance with greaser fashion in the 1950s. His hair was cropped close on the sides, the length on top sticking up at all angles. It was, at least, softer than the sharp spikes Aziraphale had seen on others wearing this style, depending less on gel or wax for its shape than on the natural inclination of Crowley's hair towards chaos. Aziraphale wouldn't like to admit it, but it suited him wonderfully.

He opened his mouth to tell Crowley what he thought of the ensemble when he stopped short, looking properly at Crowley's face for the first time. Another rush of anger flared through him.

“Take off your glasses,” he said, in a voice that brooked no argument.

Crowley did as he was told, nonchalant as he folded the sunglasses away and, after a few sloppy attempts, managed to get them into his jacket pocket. Aziraphale wasn't impressed.

“You've been fighting,” he said, the consonants clipped and precise.

“Haven't.”

“Oh, I suppose it was the door that split your lip and blacked your eye, was it?”

“No,” said Crowley petulantly. “Gig got a bit rowdy, that'sss all. 's just a bit of fun.”

“Hardly what I call fun,” Aziraphale snorted.

“Good thing I didn't invite you, then, isn't it?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, not bothering to answer before he walked around to the other side of the till. He lit the lamp on the desk and was over by the sofa when Crowley followed him, fluffing up cushions and blankets.

“You can sleep here,” Aziraphale said without looking around.

Crowley made a pouting sort of noise. “Thought I could sleep upstairs,” he said, letting a suggestive warmth creep into his voice. “With you.”

Aziraphale flushed at the words, but he bit the feeling back, concentrating on the bed he was making up on the sofa. “Absolutely not.”

He wasn't surprised when Crowley's arm insinuated its way around his waist. There was only so stealthy a person could be in Doc Martens.

“Go on,” Crowley purred, trailing his fingers over the front of Aziraphale's waistcoat. “A little Tuesday night treat...”

His hand drifted downwards – only for Aziraphale to take him by the wrist and move it, gently but firmly, away.

“That's not a thing,” he said.

Before Crowley could stop him, he stepped out of reach and was moving towards the door.

“We could make it a thing,” Crowley said, perching on the table beside the till and once again inadvertently sending a pile of books flying. “Oh, for pity's sake, angel, don't you ever tidy up in here?”

“You're the one who insists on sitting on every bloody surface apart from those actually intended for the purpose,” Aziraphale shot back.

“You're no fun,” Crowley drawled.

Aziraphale paused in the doorway. He should go back upstairs. It was what Crowley deserved, after his behaviour this evening. He ought to go upstairs and leave Crowley to sleep, preferably giving himself a stinking hangover in the bargain. He absolutely should not turn around to face him. Under no circumstances should he let his eyes trail over the long, hungry lines of him, stretched out in just the way he knew Aziraphale appreciated, let alone make eye contact with him and let him grin that arrogant grin...

Crowley's gaze was steady and unblinking. He slipped his jacket off his shoulders and dropped it on the arm of the sofa. Then he leant back against the table, letting Aziraphale drag his eyes over the stretch of his torso, lingering on the flush of skin where the bottom of his t-shirt had ridden up.

“Sobered up,” said Crowley, his voice barely disturbing the air between them. “While you were fussing with the blankets.” He let his head drop to one side, showing off the length of his neck. “Even cleaned myself up for you, since you were so rude about the smell.”

Aziraphale took a step forwards, not quite meaning to. He could feel the throb of temptation spilling out from Crowley like a bassline, though he knew there was nothing supernatural behind the feeling. It was just the effect Crowley had on him. And, judging by the insufferable smirk on his face, Crowley knew it.

“Someone ought to show you how to let your hair down, angel.”

Aziraphale started to answer before he could stop himself. “Or perhaps someone-”

He snapped his jaw shut, breathing hard. Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Go on,” he prompted.

Aziraphale took a breath. Another. He lifted his eyes and found Crowley's, glittering in the lamplight. Something stirred in the pit of Aziraphale's stomach.

“Perhaps someone ought to put you in your place.”

Anyone who didn't know Crowley well might have missed the twitch he gave at Aziraphale's words, might not have seen the slight arch that came into his back, pushing his hips upwards – an offering up, slight and subconscious. As it happened, Aziraphale knew him very well indeed.

A surge of demonic magic rattled around the shop. Blinds slammed down on all the windows, and with them the universe shrank until it was as if nothing existed beyond the light from Aziraphale's desk lamp.

Crowley hadn't even blinked. He tilted his head back, and Aziraphale could see the flicker of a pulse in his throat, the vulnerability contrasting with the slow arrogance in the movement. Crowley's voice when he answered was low and dangerous.

"I'd like to see you try."

For a moment, Aziraphale did not move. Possibilities stretched out before him, turns the evening could take. He sighed, the breath just barely trembling. He'd never been good at resisting temptation.

With the weight of Crowley's eyes on him, Aziraphale started to pull off his jacket. He laid it carefully on the back of his chair, taking a moment to collect himself.

"Sort your face out," he said over his shoulder.

Methodically, he started to fold his sleeves up to his elbows. When he turned back, Crowley hadn't moved.

"I said, fix your face," Aziraphale repeated, the first notes of command coming into his voice. Crowley opened his mouth as if to argue, but Aziraphale cut him off. "I'm not going to spend the evening walking on eggshells around your injuries," he said, rolling up his second sleeve with careful precision. His eyes found Crowley's. "If I hurt you, it's going to be on purpose."

The shiver that blew through Crowley at that was visible even from across the room. Without a word, he raised his hand and healed his black eye and split lip with a click. Aziraphale made an approving sound.

"That's better," he said. He took a step closer, considering how to proceed. "Is that something you want? For me to hurt you?"

Crowley swallowed, nodding. He cleared his throat. "Yes," he managed, knowing that Aziraphale would want him to say it out loud. "Yes, please."

Another step closer. "Alright. What else?"

"No blood," said Crowley quickly. "And, um. No toys? I want..." His cheeks pinked slightly. "Just us," he said after a moment.

Aziraphale was close enough now that he could feel the heat coming off Crowley, could breathe in that familiar, mouth-watering scent – warm skin mingling with something heady and golden, all jasmine and amber and sultry summer nights. Even after six thousand years, it still made Aziraphale's head spin, his body aching with something like hunger. 

“Do you want...” he began, searching for the words. “Gentleness?”

Crowley shook his head, swallowed hard. “No,” he said, his voice quiet but certain. “No, make it... I...” He bit his lip, avoiding Aziraphale's gaze. Even after all this time, he always struggled to say what it was he wanted. He took a breath, and then, all in a rush, “Like you said, angel – put me in my place.”

Aziraphale sighed, taking Crowley by the hip and running his thumb over the curve of the bone.

"I can do that," he said.

Crowley relaxed at the words, or perhaps at the touch. Aziraphale had learnt early in their friendship how much touch helped Crowley stay grounded in the moment – a useful thing to know about someone whose mind had a tendency to run a hundred miles an hour on a good day, and twice that on a bad one. He moved to stand between Crowley's legs, not quite ready to begin the evening in earnest. He ran his hand up and down Crowley's thigh.

"Is there anything else?"

Crowley shook his head. "You know what I like." They were so close their noses almost touched. Aziraphale nudged him, making him look up and meet Aziraphale's gaze. "I trust you," he amended, more honestly.

Such a simple phrase, but it set warmth blooming through Aziraphale. He smiled, and was still smiling when he closed the distance between them with a kiss.

Crowley's mouth was warm and pliant, and Aziraphale thought that he could do this forever and be content – just the two of them, mouths moving in an easy rhythm, the rise and fall of Crowley's breathing pressing his body to Aziraphale's in soft waves. A shift in position, and the swell of Crowley's lower lip fell between Aziraphale's. More habit than thought, Aziraphale closed his teeth around its fullness, hardly biting. Crowley let out a sigh.

"More," he breathed.

Aziraphale obliged, biting down hard enough to make Crowley hiss, long fingers digging into Aziraphale's shoulders. The heat in Aziraphale's belly flared. He buried his face in Crowley's neck and let his teeth drag down the delicate skin of his throat.

"Aziraphale…"

When Aziraphale lifted his head, he found Crowley blinking back at him, hair already in disarray. The haziness of submission hadn't come over him yet, but Aziraphale saw the promise of it in his eyes, and felt the answering lurch of his own arousal. He took a breath, stood a little straighter, and as he exhaled he felt himself slipping into his role. When he spoke, his voice was slow and steely.

"You've broken into my home. You've disturbed me in the middle of the night. And you've done nothing but make a nuisance of yourself since you arrived. You owe me an apology."

Crowley raised his chin, defiant. "No."

Aziraphale's hand was in his hair and pulling before Crowley knew what was happening, eyes widening with the pain as he was pulled upright. Aziraphale leant in close.

"I wasn't asking," he growled. He felt the gust of Crowley's breath, a sharp gasp. Aziraphale, unable to resist the urge, bumped Crowley's nose with his, their lips barely brushing. He let his voice drop. "What do you say if you want to take a break, or need me to check something?"

"Garden," said Crowley immediately. "And 'apple' if I want to stop."

Aziraphale smiled, adjusting his hold on Crowley's hair and dropping a kiss to his already heated cheek. "Good boy."

With a final, sharp tug of Crowley's hair, he stepped away, opening up the space between them. He ran his eyes up and down Crowley's body in disinterested assessment.

“Take off that revolting t-shirt,” he said coldly.

With a passable impression of nonchalance, Crowley pulled off his shirt and dropped it into Aziraphale's outstretched hand, settling back to lean against the edge of the table.

“Like what you see?”

Aziraphale barely glanced at him. Instead, he started to twist the shirt into a tightly wrapped coil. "Hands behind your back."

Crowley obliged, radiating smugness. Aziraphale paid him no mind. Crowley didn't need to be told he was beautiful – he knew it, and he knew Aziraphale knew it, and while there were evenings where Aziraphale would have happily spent hours on end proving just how well he knew it, tonight was not one of those nights. With brisk, business-like motions, he tied Crowley's wrists together with the make-shift rope, checking the knots would hold.

“Click your fingers,” he said quietly.

Crowley did so, and Aziraphale nodded, satisfied Crowley would be able to miracle himself out of any position Aziraphale might put him in. It had never come to that between them, but it put Aziraphale's mind at ease to know it was an option.

This done, he stepped back to look Crowley up and down once more, a sneer flicker at his lips.

"No safety pin piercings?" he said, faux disappointment in his voice. He pinched one of Crowley's nipples, twisting slightly as he pulled away.

Crowley winced, but still managed an unaffected air. “Not really my scene.”

"No, of course not," said Aziraphale. He moved between Crowley's legs once more, strong hands holding those narrow hips firmly in place. "It's never more than skin deep with you, is it?"

Before Crowley could answer, Aziraphale dipped his head to lick a broad, wet stripe up Crowley's sternum. He heard Crowley's breath catch slightly. He could do better than that, he decided. Wrapping his lips around one small nipple, he sucked and licked, feeling every twitch of Crowley's hips as he fought not to react. Then he took the nipple between his teeth and started to bite down, gently at first but with a slow, increasing pressure. Finally, Crowley bucked against him with a shout, unable to withstand the pain any longer. Aziraphale licked away the hurt, the sound of Crowley's panting breath sending shivers of arousal through him.

"What would your friends think of you, I wonder?" he mused, kissing his way across Crowley's chest. He paused to suck bruises into Crowley's skin as he went, leaving a patch of purple-red where his mouth had been. "When the riot's over..." he said, trailing his way upwards to Crowley's long, bare throat, bite marks like breadcrumbs. "When they all go home to their squats and their bedsits... Do they know you come sniffing round here? Crawling like a dog, desperate for some touch?"

A groan through gritted teeth. Crowley twisted under Aziraphale's body, unable to get loose, his cheeks burning. Aziraphale laughed, a bitter, breathy thing. He pressed himself tight against Crowley, pinning him down to murmur into his ear.

"Do they know you sleep in a penthouse in Mayfair? In silk pyjamas, no less. Or that you prefer the Ritz to the Clarendon, and the Gavroche best of all? I bet you park the Bentley round the corner before you go to gigs, tell them all you came down on the Tube...”

"It's just a fashion," Crowley bit out, Aziraphale's words hitting a little too close to home. “It's just a bloody fashion trend.”

Aziraphale outright laughed. "Yes, the fashion," he said, voice dripping with scorn. "God knows I've seen you in some ridiculous get-ups in your time but this..."

He braced himself, hands on the table behind Crowley, allowing himself space to rake a critical eye over Crowley's body. He felt a flutter of amusement and fondness when he saw that, even bruised and blushing and breathless as he was, Crowley still managed a cocksure jut of his hips.

"You don't like it?" Crowley pouted. "Thought you'd at least enjoy the trousers."

Aziraphale considered them. They sat low, and without his shirt the lines of Crowley's hips tantalised the eye downwards before disappearing under the tight, black denim. A flush of red hair crawled down from his belly to the same effect – dragging Aziraphale's attention to the unmistakable swell of Crowley's erection, hard and thick against his thigh. Absent-mindedly, Aziraphale ran his fingers over the shape of it, applying the barest pressure as he let his nails run over the head.

"I suppose there's something to be said for the cut," he granted, as if commenting on the weather – as if Crowley had not just let slip a moan, pressing himself upwards into Aziraphale's touch. "The rest, though..."

He gestured dismissively at the zips and straps that covered the rest of the fabric. Crowley laughed.

"Oh, but that's where they get their name from," he said, still smiling. Aziraphale raised a questioning eyebrow, and Crowley grinned. "Bondage trousers, angel."

Aziraphale snorted with laughter. Then, his head tipped to the side, he reconsidered. "Well," he said, "why not?"

"Huh?"

Before Crowley could react, Aziraphale clicked his fingers and Crowley's legs were snapped together as the straps on his trousers wound themselves around his thighs and calves, pulling themselves taut. In an instant, he was immobilised from thigh to ankle. Crowley struggled against the restraints, too surprised even to argue.

"Do you know," Aziraphale said, smiling, "I think they might be growing on me."

The colour in Crowley's cheeks deepened. He shot a look at the angel. "Let me guess," he said, his voice not quite steady. "I apologise, and you let me go?"

"I always said you were smarter than you looked."

He stepped away, unbalancing Crowley and making him fight to stay upright. It was quite the sight, his hands bound behind his back, the straps around his legs straining as he struggled for purchase. Crowley's breath was coming faster now, as much out of embarrassment as arousal. Aziraphale could see the flush spreading down his neck, spilling in blotchy red patches over his chest.

Finally, he managed to get himself steady, propped up against the table behind him.

"Well done," said Aziraphale, voice dripping with sarcasm. That earned him a filthy look, but he wasn't finished yet. "I'd love to see you try and walk," he said.

For a moment, Crowley didn't move. His eyes closed, just for a moment, shoulders tense. There – there was the edge of it. The note of humiliation they'd been working up to. Aziraphale waited. When Crowley opened his eyes again, Aziraphale caught his gaze and held it.

"Walk," he said, the single syllable heavy in the quiet.

A moment's hesitation. Then Crowley took a breath, and began to try. He hauled himself to standing, swaying a little with the lack of balance. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the floor in front of him. He shuffled one foot forwards, hampered further by the heavy boots he was wearing. Then the other, managing to push forwards about an inch. His ears had gone deep, hot red, Aziraphale could feel the mortification coming off him as he struggled with the impossible task. Another jerking step – and he lost his balance, pitching forwards, unable to put out so much as a hand to stop himself.

Aziraphale caught him easily, Crowley's full weight hitting his broad chest with a thump that would have knocked the wind out of another man. But Aziraphale only laughed, strong arms holding Crowley up as if he weighed nothing at all.

"I suppose I should have expected that," he said, his chest rumbling where Crowley's face was crushed against it. "You've always been more comfortable on your knees."

In a smooth movement, Aziraphale adjusted his grip on Crowley and lowered him to the floor. His knees hit the floorboards with an audible thud and then he was kneeling before Aziraphale, breathing hard, nostrils flaring. Aziraphale ran his hand through the shock of his hair.

"Oh, it's alright," said Aziraphale in a soothing voice. "You did your best. And I know you like it better down there, don't you?"

With a jerk, Crowley pulled his head away. “You don't know shit.”

Aziraphale laughed, straightening his waistcoat. “Is that what you think? You imagine you're some kind of enigma? The mysterious Anthony Crowley, dressed all in black, wearing sunglasses inside. Who could he be, I wonder?”

Crowley scowled, and looked as if he might say something. But the words didn't come, and he closed his mouth with a snap, lips pressed closed in a tight, white line. Aziraphale began to walk, moving in a slow circle around Crowley's kneeling form.

“I know you, Crowley. I know you of old.”

Crowley scoffed. Aziraphale ignored him, moving past Crowley's line of sight. Crowley didn't move, didn't turn his head, made no reaction at all save for a twitch of muscle in his neck as he resisted the urge to look. Aziraphale indulged himself in the sight, taking in the swell of muscle in Crowley's upper arms, the slope of his neck, the freckles that scattered across his shoulders.

“You're going to apologise,” he said simply.

“No.” Crowley's tone was petulant, and Aziraphale didn't need to see his face to know the expression it would be wearing. He rolled his eyes.

“Yes,” he said, “you are. And do you know why?”

He circled round to Crowley's other side, reaching out to take a fistful of red hair once more. He pulled Crowley's head back, forcing him to make eye contact. Then he smiled, sweet as only an angel can be.

“Because I want you to.”

With that, he closed the space between them and pushed Crowley's head face first into his lap. Crowley tried to pull away but the weight of Aziraphale's hand was too strong. Aziraphale ground Crowley's face into his crotch, his blood surging in his veins at the display. Crowley's hands were balled into fists behind him, but Aziraphale knew it was only a matter of time. He rocked his hips absent-mindedly. He didn't mind waiting

Slowly, by degrees, Crowley's resistance ebbed. Eventually he was pressing forwards rather than pulling away, nuzzling his face against Aziraphale's erection with animalistic instinct. Aziraphale moved his hand to the nape of Crowley's neck, holding him in place. Crowley whined softly, unable to help himself.

“Look at me,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley shook his head as best he could. He pressed closer, hiding his face. Aziraphale was overcome suddenly with fondness. He wanted to drop to the floor and kiss Crowley where he knelt. Instead, he took a moment to gather himself before speaking.

“Crowley. I said, look at me.”

A breath. For a moment, Aziraphale thought Crowley was going to refuse. But then he lifted his eyes, looking up at Aziraphale with fury in his eyes. Aziraphale let himself smile then, an arrogant tilt of his lips that he knew did quiet, maddening things to Crowley's insides.

“Open your mouth.” Crowley tried to pull away, but Aziraphale held him firm. “I won't tell you again.”

Crowley breathed inhaled sharply. He hid his face once more, shoulders moving as he breathed. Then, just as Aziraphale was about to lose patience, his shoulders slumped and he sat back on his heels, mouth open, glaring at Aziraphale all the while.

Aziraphale didn't even try to keep the smugness out of his voice. “That's right, darling. Good boy.”

He ran his fingertip over the swell of Crowley's bottom lip, humming appreciatively. He could see the twisting, shivering shame in Crowley's face, the reluctance overlying the deeper want. Then he slipped his finger into Crowley's mouth. Crowley didn't move. Aziraphale looked down at him, expectantly. Crowley's upper lip twitched, wanting to sneer, wanting to cringe. Then he wrapped his lips around Aziraphale's finger and began to suck.

Aziraphale allowed himself a sigh of pleasure. “Good boy,” he said again. Crowley bristled, but Aziraphale knew from experience it was as much out of satisfaction at the words as annoyance. “Do you want another?”

The noise Crowley made might have been assent or disinterest. Aziraphale slid a second finger in beside the first regardless. His fingers were thicker than Crowley's, less elegant, and filled Crowley's mouth easily. The heat was incredible, and Crowley lips soon grew red and wet with the drag of Aziraphale's fingers as he pushed them slowly in and out.

Aziraphale leant down to speak, all soft temptation. “You want me to fill you up, is that it? Want me to make you mine?”

Crowley shifted where he knelt, a hungry little noise escaping from him.

“Open up.”

Confusion flashed across Crowley's face, but he did as he was told – he let his mouth fall open, Aziraphale fingers resting against his tongue. When Aziraphale pushed a third thick finger inside, Crowley's eyes widened, darting from Aziraphale's hand to his face and back. He tried to swallow, but the weight of Aziraphale's fingers made it impossible, his lips stretching to accommodate them.

Aziraphale's heart was beating hard in his chest, his cock aching. He ignored it. He ignored everything but the dawning realisation in Crowley's eyes. He was in no hurry. With cold disinterest, he watched as saliva started to well up in Crowley's mouth.

Crowley struggled against the ties on his arms and legs, the heavy hand in his hair. When the first trickles of drool started to drip down over his chin, he could do nothing but squirm. His face twisted with shame, the hot, red blush returning to his cheeks and ears.

"Oh, Crowley," said Aziraphale, almost pitying. "What a mess you're making."

Crowley wriggled in frustration, unable to get loose. He shot a look at Aziraphale's crotch, his eyes pleading. Aziraphale cocked his head to one side.

“This?” he said, grasping his cock through his trousers. “Is this what you want?”

Crowley was thrusting where he knelt, mindless movements of his hips against the pressure of his trousers, desperate for relief. His chin and throat shone wet in the lamplight, a puddle of drool forming on the floor in front of him.

“Oh, you can have it, darling,” said Aziraphale kindly. “It's all yours. Anything you want.”

A flicker of doubt crossed Crowley's face. Aziraphale pulled his fingers free, wiping them in a smear across Crowley's cheek. Crowley blinked up at him, swallowing hard. Aziraphale let his hand rest gently against the side of Crowley's throat.

“You can have whatever you like, my dear,” he said. He leant down, bringing his lips to Crowley's ear. “When... you apologise.”

The words hung between them. Crowley licked his lips, blinking slowly. Then, he worked his mouth, and spat, the gobbet of spit landing squarely on the front of Aziraphale's waistcoat.

Aziraphale sighed. Then he straightened up and pulled his handkerchief out to dab the spot away. "Eloquent as ever."

He stepped around Crowley, moving behind him once more. Again, Crowley resisted the urge to look round. The wind outside. The soft creak of wood as Crowley shifted his weight. His breath, loud in the still air...

Then, a rush of noise and motion – hands at Crowley's shoulders and waist dragged him to standing, his bound legs making him stumble and twist. Before he could fall, Aziraphale slammed him down against the desk, his chest hitting the surface hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. He fought to stand but a hand on the back of his neck held him fast, his arms and legs straining uselessly against his restraints.

"Safewords," Aziraphale demanded from behind him.

Crowley snarled. "'Garden' to pause, 'apple' to stop. Get on with it!"

For once, Aziraphale did as he was told. He yanked unceremoniously at Crowley's trousers, the tight waistband cutting into his hips with stubborn strength. Another pull, the sound of something tearing, and they jerked down just enough to bunch at the top of Crowley's thighs, digging in where the fabric could stretch no further. Crowley gasped at the sudden exposure. But he had no time to process the feeling. With brutal efficiency, Aziraphale delivered a stinging smack to first one bare arse cheek, then the other, over and over again. He kept up a steady volley of blows, an audible crack ringing out each time his hand landed.

Soon, Crowley was writhing against the desk, teeth gritted to stop from crying out. Aziraphale watched him with a practiced eye, the thrill of power coursing through him. It wasn't the pain that excited him. Hurting Crowley wasn't something he enjoyed in itself, and he knew that if Crowley had only been interested in a bit of pain for pleasure's sake, he simply would have told Aziraphale outright – bite here, scratch there, slap this. This was something else entirely. Crowley wanted to be dominated, wanted to put himself entirely into Aziraphale's hands and be led through the pain and the humiliation to the release and comfort on the other side. He trusted Aziraphale to bring him to the brink of what he could bear, and to lead him back to himself again when it was over.

Eventually, Aziraphale let his hand come to rest on the curve of Crowley's arse. Crowley could have taken more, he knew, but there was no reason to rush him to his limits. They had the whole night ahead of them. Crowley slumped against the desk, breathing heavily.

"My dear boy," Aziraphale said softly, stroking the palm of his hand over stinging, red skin. "You don't make life easy on yourself, do you?"

Crowley grunted, his shoulders twitching in an attempt at a shrug. Aziraphale traced his fingertips over the heated skin. Then, his other hand still holding firm on the back of Crowley's neck, he pushed Crowley's cheeks apart and stroked his thumb up and down between them. Crowley flinched at the touch, jerking his hips – though of course, there was nowhere he could go.

Aziraphale tutted. “Oh, now,” he admonished. “Don't be like that.”

With a thoughtless miracle, Aziraphale's thumb grew slick, sliding over Crowley's hole, cool and wet. A sound like a whimper started in the back of Crowley's throat, bitten off almost before it began. He was biting his lip, digging his teeth in hard to try and stop himself from reacting.

“You don't need to pretend with me,” said Aziraphale. “I know what you want.”

Crowley's face twisted, but he made no answer. Aziraphale pushed gently, letting the tip of his thumb slide past Crowley's rim. Crowley was resolutely silent, though every part of him seemed to be straining with the effort. Aziraphale stepped closer, pushing his crotch against the back of Crowley's thigh. The pressure was delicious, and he let out a sigh, hips moving gently back and forth.

"You look so good like this, darling, spread out for me. Such a pretty thing..."

Finally, Crowley's resolve started to weaken. Even as his cheeks and ears burned with indignation, he couldn't help pressing back into Aziraphale's touch, couldn't stifle the small noises of desire and frustration that spilled out of him. Aziraphale's hand tightened on his neck.

“You like that, don't you? Like it when I call you 'pretty'?”

He leaned down, bringing his ear to the hot shell of Crowley's ear. His hair was wet with sweat at his temples and the nape of his neck, and fell in strands across his forehead. Aziraphale pressed his nose into the damp skin, nuzzling close even as he pressed Crowley down against the desk.

“That's what you are, isn't it? That's all you really are. Just a pretty little thing for me to use.” 

Crowley let out a gasp, eyes screwed shut. His teeth were bared in a grimace as he fought against waves of embarrassment and desperate, hungry desire. Aziraphale pressed his thumb in deeper, feeling the stretch of Crowley's hole around him. He sneered, letting the sound of it come into his voice.

“Is that what you came here for tonight, Crowley? Hm? All that bluster and swagger, so much sound and fury. When all you really want is someone to play with your arse and tell you you're pretty.”

At that, Crowley found his voice. He twisted, trying his best to push Aziraphale off him. “Fuck you!”

Aziraphale laughed, which only made Crowley kick harder. Still plenty of bite left in him, Aziraphale was gratified to see. He stood, stepping away from Crowley and leaving him panting on the desktop.

"Stand up, he said. A grunt from Crowley, a bit of shuffling. Aziraphale frowned. "Crowley," he began. "I said-"

"Garden."

At once, Aziraphale moved back over to the desk, his hand reassuring on Crowley's shoulder. "What do you need?" he said in a low voice, leaning close.

Crowley laughed, still a little breathless. "I can't get up," he admitted. "Angle's all wrong." He kicked his legs as if to demonstrate.

Aziraphale looked, and saw he was perfectly right. The height of the desk combined with the angle of Crowley's legs meant that, with his arms and legs bound as they were, he simply wouldn't be able to get himself up to standing without help.

"Oh!" Aziraphale laughed too, not a little relieved. “Righto.”

He put one arm under Crowley's chest, the other around his waist, and hauled him up with an "Upsa-daisy!"

Crowley wobbled a little, and Aziraphale stayed at his side, strong arms holding him steady. The pink in Crowley's cheeks clashed wonderfully with his hair, his freckles standing out against the flush. Aziraphale couldn't help smiling.

"I don't think," said Crowley, catching his breath, "you could have found anything less sexy to say as you did that if you tried."

Laughing softly, Aziraphale brushed a sweaty strand of hair off Crowley's forehead. "I'm sure I could have thought of something," he said.

Crowley hummed, leaning into the touch and letting his eyes drift closed. Aziraphale's fingers moved to Crowley's chest, tracing absent-minded shapes, and for a moment they simply stood there in the quiet, together.

"Do you want to carry on?" Aziraphale said, his voice almost a whisper.

Crowley nodded. "Yeah," he said, eyes still closed. A moment more. Then he swallowed, cleared his throat. "Yes," he said again, looking at Aziraphale with hot, lazy certainty. He let out a rush of breath. "God, I want you."

Aziraphale ran his eyes over Crowley's body. A self-satisfied twinkle came into his eye. "I know."

He ran his hand down over Crowley's torso, fingers trailing through the sparse column of hair. The sensation caused a flourish of goosebumps to break out over Crowley's chest. Aziraphale leant closer, pulling Crowley to him, tilting him ever so slightly off balance. The weight of his body in Aziraphale's arms was too perfect. He brought his mouth to Crowley's neck and kissed it, open mouthed, his tongue hot against salt-slick skin.

Crowley groaned, becoming heavier in Aziraphale's arms. He smelled of sex and sweat, and still that heady, lingering aroma of ancient, jasmine-scented nights that went straight to the animal parts of Aziraphale's brain. He sunk his teeth into Crowley's throat, making him kick and gasp.

When he lifted his head, he drank in the sight of Crowley, head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth hanging open as he panted for breath. His hips moved in mindless, arrhythmic jerks. Looking now, Aziraphale could see that the button on the front of Crowley's trousers was missing, torn away when he had pulled them down. The zipper had given way too, though not entirely, and where the back of the trousers had had enough give to pull down over Crowley's arse, in the front they were still just about in place, pulled tight across the swell of Crowley's erection.

It couldn't have been comfortable, the way his cock strained against the denim. Aziraphale ran his hand over the shape of him and Crowley hissed, trying at once to push into, and jerk away from, the contact.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale said, disappointment in his voice. "Look at the state of you."

Crowley didn't answer. His teeth were digging into his lower lip once more, his eyes tightly closed. Aziraphale traced the outline of Crowley's cock through his jeans, pressing his fingers against the swollen head. He was rewarded with a whimper from Crowley, and when he pulled his fingers away, he realised with a shudder of pleasure that they were damp.

He found the head of Crowley's cock once more, rubbing it through the tight black fabric. The dampness grew, slight but definite. Aziraphale looked up to find Crowley watching him, red with arousal and shame. Aziraphale brought his fingers up to Crowley's mouth, pressed them against his lips.

"Can you taste yourself, Crowley?"

Crowley glared back at him, refusing to answer. Aziraphale smiled, sharp and hungry, and reached down to ease Crowley's zipper down the rest of the way.

The sound Crowley made when the fabric finally gave was somewhere between a groan and a sob. His head fell back once more, chest heaving. He didn't look up, even when Aziraphale reached into the opening and pulled Crowley's cock into the open air, though he gasped at the sudden cold, vulnerability hitting him like a blow.

"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale said. "You've made such a mess of yourself."

Crowley's cock was red and straining, as hard as Aziraphale had ever seen it. It had been leaking precum steadily into his jeans, probably since the first blow had landed, and Crowley was smeared in his own wetness, now cooling rapidly as it dried. Taking Crowley's cock in his hand, Aziraphale squeezed, causing a fat bead of precum to form almost instantly at the tip.

Crowley writhed, twisting hopelessly in Aziraphale's grip. Desperate noises pulled out of him with every breath, high and urgent. Aziraphale was unmoved. Relentlessly, he pumped his fist up and down on Crowley's cock, smearing precum over its length. He moved his hand down further, feeling the aching tightness of Crowley's balls, and pulled them gently, making Crowley moan.

Soon, Crowley was a shivering, mumbling mess. His body was in constant motion, his back arching, hips pushing back and forth against nothing, desperate for release. When Aziraphale moved his hand away, it took Crowley a minute or more to fall still, hips still twitching in futile instinct. Crowley was only nominally standing by now, his whole weight slumped against Aziraphale's broad chest and strong, certain shoulders.

Aziraphale let him rest a moment, chest heaving, making small, mindless sounds of frustration. He was beautiful, light dancing on the sheen of his sweat in a way that made Aziraphale think, a little absurdly, of varnish on an oil painting. Then Crowley opened his eyes, and transformed from fine art into a living creature once more, the look in his eyes combining love and lust and anger like no painting could ever capture.

Aziraphale kissed him. He couldn't help it. It was a slow, filthy kind of kiss, wet and vulgar and faintly disgusting. Aziraphale sucked Crowley's tongue into his mouth, drunk on the taste of him. Then, to Aziraphale's shock and delight, Crowley pulled away – and sank his teeth into Aziraphale's bottom lip. The pain shone hard and bright, pulling Aziraphale back into focus. He groaned, fingers digging into Crowley's flesh. When they broke apart, Crowley looked up at Aziraphale with an insolent grin.

“Don't tell me you're giving up already, angel?”

Aziraphale scoffed. Plenty of bite left, indeed.

In a fluid movement, he hauled Crowley up and off his feet, lifting him onto his shoulder with no more effort than if he were lifting a pile of books. Crowley gasped, thrilled and appalled as he always was by these demonstrations of Aziraphale's strength. Rope and handcuffs, gags and blindfolds, any of the many restraints and bonds they'd played with over the years – none of them spoke to Crowley like the knowledge that his angel could, if he had a mind, throw him through three brick walls and halfway into next week without breaking a sweat. Aziraphale couldn't see the appeal himself, but he was happy to indulge him now and then.

A few short steps brought them to the sofa, where Aziraphale sat, manhandling Crowley into place across his lap. This time, his pace was fast and brutal. Six hard smacks in quick succession, first to one cheek, then the other. Crowley cried out, arching his back as if he could pull away from the blows. But Aziraphale held him firm. When he finished, he ran his hand over the overheated skin, admiring the feathered pattern of red handprints. He traced the lines of them, then moved his hand up to rub the small of Crowley's back.

“More.”

The word came out in a sigh, but Aziraphale heard it. He squeezed Crowley's hip once, a small gesture of affection. Then he brought his hand down with a stinging smack across the centre of Crowley's arse. Another, and a third, all hard, heavy hits that left his palm ringing. Crowley pressed his forehead into the sofa cushions, whining and squirming with the pain.

“Aziraphale…” he breathed, almost a sob.

“I'm here, darling.”

Aziraphale's voice was deep and warm, something solid for Crowley to cling to. He was starting to drift, easing into the soft, dream-like state that submission brought to him. It wouldn't be long now. Aziraphale hit him again.

“You can stop this whenever you like, Crowley.”

Smack. Crowley writhed with pain, his arms straining against the t-shirt around his wrists.

“Tell me you're sorry.”

Aziraphale waited. Crowley's breath was ragged, his eyes squeezed shut. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He sniffed, shaking his head.

“N-no,” he managed.

Another smack. Once again, Aziraphale waited, watching Crowley's face with careful attention. He raised his hand, and with no sign Crowley was going to stop him, brought it down with a crack. Crowley's face twisted in a grimace, his body trying to curl in on itself, desperate to escape the next, inevitable blow. But his teeth were gritted, and Aziraphale raised his hand once more...

“I'm sorry.”

The words came quick and quiet, almost a whisper – but Aziraphale was ready for them. With a click of his fingers, Crowley was naked and unbound, and Aziraphale was gathering him into his arms, holding him close.

“Oh, darling, I've got you. It's alright, my love, I have you...”

Crowley wrapped himself around the solid, certain weight of Aziraphale's body, clinging to him like a rock in a storm. He pressed his face into Aziraphale's neck, and Aziraphale held him tight, one hand on the back of his head, the other rubbing his back in wide, even circles.

“Good boy,” he murmured, his mouth pressed against the side of Crowley's head. “You're such a good boy, Crowley. You did so well.”

Crowley wriggled closer, his breath shaky. For a moment he sat, content to be held, snuffling ever so slightly. Then, when his breathing had returned to normal, he lifted his face to let Aziraphale pepper it with kisses. His cheeks were hot beneath Aziraphale's lips, sweat drying on his forehead. Aziraphale swept his hand through the red tangle of hair, laughing gently at the electric shock mess it had become.

“What do you want, darling?” he whispered between kisses. “Anything you like.”

Crowley barely opened his eyes, too strung out on sensation to care about much of anything. He started to pull at the buttons of Aziraphale's waistcoat and gave up almost immediately, preferring to wrap his arms around Aziraphale's neck and nuzzle the side of his head.

“Off,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Everything, off.”

Aziraphale laughed. There was no point trying to undress, not with Crowley clinging to him like a leggy barnacle. He clicked his fingers once more and laughed all the more at the delighted sound Crowley made at suddenly having a warm, naked angel underneath him.

Still smiling, Aziraphale laid Crowley down against the sofa cushions. His skinny legs wrapped tight around Aziraphale's waist, fingers tangled in his hair as Aziraphale kissed down the column of his throat. When Aziraphale brought his hand downwards, he found Crowley's cock jutting hard between them. He squeezed, palm already slick as it moved up and down.

Crowley moaned, his head falling back against the arm of the sofa. “Aziraphale...” he sighed.

Crowley's breath gusted against Aziraphale's face as he kissed his neck, his ears, his cheeks. Then he started to move slowly downwards, making sure to kiss the bruises he'd left earlier in the evening. When he reached Crowley's prick, his tongue darted out to lap at the tip, pressing against the sensitive underside and making Crowley shiver. Then he swallowed him down, easily taking him all. He pressed his nose into the thatch of red hair at the base of Crowley's cock, breathing in the perfect, animal smell of him. 

With an obscene, wet sound, he pulled off Crowley's cock and took it in his fist, pumping it until it shone with precum. Then he took it in his mouth once more and began to suck in earnest.

Before long, Crowley was desperate, his hands moving from Aziraphale's hair to his shoulders to covering his own face. He came without warning, spilling into Aziraphale's mouth with a muffled cry and falling limp against the cushions.

Aziraphale licked him clean, taking his time. He let Crowley float for a while, basking in the afterglow of his orgasm. The frantic energy had gone out of him, and when he finally opened his eyes and looked at Aziraphale, his yellow eyes were soft with satisfaction. Aziraphale kissed Crowley's thigh.

“Is that better?” he said. Crowley nodded, a small, fractional movement. “Good. What now?”

Crowley barely even shrugged. Aziraphale moved up to lie beside him, running his hand up and down the pale stretch of Crowley's torso. Crowley stared at him, too far gone to remember to blink. In a rush of fondness, Aziraphale leant down and kissed the tip of his lovely, freckled nose. Crowley smiled up at him dreamily.

“I want,” he started, the words slurring together. He licked his lips and tried again. “I want to sssuck you.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I think we can manage that.”

He rolled over onto his back, pulling Crowley with him so they exchanged places. Crowley lost no time slotting himself between Aziraphale's legs, running his hands over the swell of Aziraphale's thighs with a connoisseur's appreciation. Aziraphale's cock was fat and aching with neglect. Crowley wrapped his fingers round it and squeezed, experimentally, making Aziraphale groan. He'd been ignoring the throb of his arousal for most of the evening, unable to concentrate on both it and Crowley's pleasure. Now though, his whole body hummed with heightened awareness. When Crowley finally dipped his head to take him in his mouth, Aziraphale felt the tension of the evening rushing out of him.

“That's it, darling,” he sighed. “Good boy...”

Crowley relaxed too, his eyes drifting closed as he set a slow, almost meditative rhythm. Aziraphale watched, fascinated, as Crowley slipped into the fuzzy, radio-static state of mind that made submission so satisfying for him. His whole body radiated contentment, with one hand holding Aziraphale's cock steady and the other wrapped around his thigh, fingers digging appreciatively into the soft flesh. It was always such a pleasure to see, to know that Crowley trusted him so much he could let himself go entirely, safe in the knowledge that Aziraphale would give him what he needed.

When Aziraphale brought his hand to rest on the back of his head, Crowley fairly melted into the touch. His hand squeezed Aziraphale's thigh, and Aziraphale knew well enough what the gesture meant. He tightened his grip in Crowley's hair and was rewarded with a heartfelt moan that vibrated through Crowley's throat. He brought his other hand to rest on the side of Crowley's face, and, very gently, started to move his hips up and down.

“How's that?” he said, but Crowley was already moving in time with his thrusts, pushing Aziraphale's cock deeper each time.

Emboldened, Aziraphale started to push a little harder. Crowley only relaxed more, letting go of Aziraphale's prick and looping his arm around his thigh, relinquishing all control. Aziraphale felt his cock slide into the back of his throat as he began to fuck Crowley's face in slow, even thrusts. He felt his control waver and the rhythm of his hips began to stumble. Crowley opened his eyes, and the sight of them, full yellow and pupils narrowed to thin, barely-there slits, nearly tipped Aziraphale over the edge.

“Do you want me to come?” he asked, his voice more steady than he felt.

Crowley blinked, slow and cat-like. Then, as the question filtered through the fog of his arousal, he started to lift his head. Aziraphale let go of him immediately, watching with shuddering pleasure as Crowley lifted himself off the length of his cock. Crowley's mouth was wet and red with use, a smear of saliva glistening on his chin. He made no move to wipe it away. Instead, he sat up on his heels and looked at Aziraphale with a bleary, pleasure-hazed expression.

“Fuck me.”

Aziraphale let out a shaky laugh. “OK,” he said.

He half expected Crowley to climb up and mount him where he was, but Crowley had other ideas. He pushed Aziraphale's legs off the sofa and arranged himself kneeling up with his back to the room, arms braced against the back of the sofa. Aziraphale got to his feet, legs slightly wobbly. He took a moment to appreciate the sight of Crowley's arse, the marks of his hand still clearly visible. Crowley looked back at him over his shoulder, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks. Then he arched his back, offering himself up, and Aziraphale closed the space between them with a sigh.

“Oh, my darling,” he breathed into the crook of Crowley's neck, pulling him close with a hand pressed flat against the dip at the base of Crowley's sternum. His other hand ran up and down the outside of Crowley's thigh, raking through the hair that scattered from knee to hip. Crowley leant backwards, pressing himself against Aziraphale.

“Yours?” he said quietly.

Aziraphale kissed his cheek. “Mine,” he said. “Completely.”

Taking his cock in his hand, he lined his hips up with Crowley's and moved his prick into position. The fat, wet head pressed against Crowley's hole, miraculously slick, and it seemed impossible, looking down at it, that Crowley would be able to take it.

“Are you ready?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley answered with a nod, and, with a final kiss to his cheek, Aziraphale pushed himself inside.

Crowley was hot and tight around him, impossibly tight. He moved deeper by degrees, rocking his hips gently. Crowley groaned, resting his head on his arms against the back of the sofa. Aziraphale stared, unable to tear his eyes away from where Crowley's hole stretched around him. A final thrust and he bottomed out, hips flush to the slight cushion of Crowley's arse. For a moment it was all he could do to hold onto Crowley's hips and remember how to breathe.

“Crowley...”

“Fuck me, Aziraphale, pleassse...”

Aziraphale never could resist it when he begged. He started to move, slowly at first, his eyes closed, mouth falling open. Then he felt Crowley start to rock with him, pushing him to move faster. Blood thumped in his ears, he could feel his pulse through his whole body, hot and alive and powerful.

“Harder,” Crowley gasped, spreading his legs to push Aziraphale deeper still.

The sound of their bodies moving together filled the air, wet and obscene. Aziraphale dug his fingers into Crowley's skin, bouncing him off his cock so hard he almost slipped loose with every thrust. The feet of the sofa screeched against the floorboard once, hitting the wall with a thud, and the sight of his cock pulling in and out of Crowley's hole was almost too much for Aziraphale. He dug his teeth into his lip, tearing his eyes away.

He reached around Crowley's chest, pulling him to kneel upright once more. His back pressed hot against Aziraphale's chest and stomach, sweat making their skin slick wherever they touched. Crowley's hand gripped Aziraphale's and moved it to his throat. Aziraphale knew what he wanted. He wrapped his fingers around Crowley's throat like a collar, firm without squeezing.

Crowley whimpered, his hands reaching blindly behind him, desperate for something to hold onto. “Aziraphale,” he managed.

With the hand that wasn't holding Crowley's throat, Aziraphale took one of Crowley's wrists and held it pinned against his thigh.

“Touch yourself, Crowley. Let me see you. I want to watch as you come for me, let me see.”

His chin hooked over Crowley's shoulder, he watched as Crowley started to pull frantically on his prick, jerking himself off in time to the slap of Aziraphale's hips against his arse. The sight took Aziraphale's breath away – the elegant arch of Crowley's torso stretched bare and vulnerable before him, the desperation in Crowley's movements, the growing heat between them as Crowley's orgasm started to build.

“Pleassse, Aziraphale,” he begged, his words running together in a needy whine. “Come inssside me, I need- I want-”

“You want me to come inside you, darling? Fill you up, make you mine?”

Crowley hissed, nodding frantically, beyond words. His body was hot and solid against Aziraphale's, he was real and beautiful and begging and it was more than Aziraphale could bear. He pressed his face into the slope of Crowley's shoulder, his mouth open and panting. A few more thrusts, and his orgasm crashed through him in waves, each deeper and more dizzying than the last. He lost himself in the sensation, anchored only where his body touched Crowley's – the dig of Crowley's nails against his thigh, the slide of his back against Aziraphale's chest, the scrape of stubble on his throat where Aziraphale's hand still rested.

He fucked himself through the last shockwaves, feeling Crowley tense as he did so. He opened his eyes just in time to watch as Crowley came too, spilling himself over his hand and up his belly. Aziraphale let go of his wrist and throat, holding him close and kissing every part of him he could reach, murmuring praise and endearments between kisses.

They stayed like that for a while, pressed close together, loose-limbed and breathing heavily. Finally, Aziraphale pulled away, making Crowley grunt with grumpy indignation.

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale chided.

He got them situated on the sofa with very little resistance from Crowley, who seemed content for Aziraphale to arrange his limbs however he saw fit. They ended up cuddling, of course, with Crowley's head resting on Aziraphale's broad chest, wrinkling his nose as the curly white hair tickled his nostrils. Aziraphale pulled a blanket down around them, tugging it into place with one hand. The other was stroking Crowley's hair, and he knew better than to risk stopping now he'd started.

He managed to get the blanket so it covered them well enough, then pulled part of it back so that Crowley's bare arse was exposed to the air. 

“What're you doing?” Crowley grumbled into Aziraphale's chest, but he made no attempt to move.

“I thought it might help to cool it down,” said Aziraphale, a little sheepishly. “It's awfully red.”

Crowley snorted. “And whose fault is that?”

Aziraphale conceded the point. He lay still for a while, looking at the ceiling, appreciating the simple joy of having Crowley in his arms.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked. He knew the answer – he just liked to hear Crowley say it.

Crowley looked up at him, his lovely, yellow eyes full of affection. “I loved it,” he said. “You were perfect.” He pressed a kiss to Aziraphale's chest and nuzzled his cheek against it. Then a frown creased his forehead. “Bit mean though,” he added, to Aziraphale's laughter.

“Oh, darling, I'm sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “I was just playing, I promise.”

The frown softened slightly, though it did not fade altogether. “What about what you said earlier? Before we started?”

“Hm? What do you mean? About you being drunk as a fart and stinking of a brewery? No, I stand by that one.”

Crowley shot him a look. “Not that,” he said. “Do you really not like my outfit? Don't laugh!”

“I'm not!” said Aziraphale, laughing. “Oh, don't be like that. I'm not laughing at you. I'm enjoying you. You're very sweet.”

“Fuck off.”

Unperturbed, Aziraphale kissed the top of Crowley's head, scritching his scalp for good measure. “You looked marvellous, darling,” he said. Crowley did not look convinced. “You did! Look. I can't say I understand it. I can't...” He cast about for the right word. “I can't read it particularly well, if you know what I mean. But I don't understand rather a lot of what you've worn over the years, and that's never stopped you looking completely gorgeous.”

Crowley made a doubtful noise, though he seemed slightly mollified.

“Remember hobble skirts?” said Aziraphale after a moment.

A slow, sleepy smile spread over Crowley's face. “I looked really good in hobble skirts,” he said fondly.

“You did,” Aziraphale agreed. “Of course, it took you three hours to walk from one end of the street to the other, but by God you looked good doing it.”

Crowley hummed happily at the memory. Aziraphale cuddled him a little closer, brimming with affection for the sweet, sleepy demon.

“You're beautiful, my dear. Outrageously so. And besides, I might be biased but I can't imagine ever really disliking an outfit of yours if it involves very, very tight trousers.”

“Well,” said Crowley, “when you put it like that... I suppose I can let you off.”

“That t-shirt is appalling, though.”

Crowley was delighted. “Isn't it?” he said, thrilled at the reminder.

“Completely vile,” Aziraphale reassured him. “I like the jacket, though. Very, um. Tom of Finland.”

At that, Crowley burst out laughing. “Tom of Finland?” he said, so incredulous he propped himself up on one arm to stare down at Aziraphale. “Angel, I might be a lot of things, but Tom of Finland-esque is not one of them.”

Aziraphale was laughing too, cheeks flushing pink. “I- No, I didn't mean-” he spluttered, but Crowley cut him off.

“Is that what you're secretly into, Aziraphale, is that it? All these years spent making do with boney old me, and you've been dreaming about-”

“It's not like that!”

“-great burly lumberjacks, leather daddies with biceps big as my torso – and cocks the size of my forearm, let's not forget those!”

“Oh, shut up,” Aziraphale said weakly, swatting Crowley's shoulder.

“All that time, I never knew – you're a size queen!”

“I'm not a size queen!” Aziraphale protested, which only succeeded in making Crowley laugh even harder, head thrown back, shoulders shaking.

Eventually, the last of their laughter died away, leaving them both warm and smiling. Crowley settled back down to lie against Aziraphale's chest once more, still grinning to himself. An easy, companionable quiet rose up around them, the noise of the wind outside mingling with the soft sound of Aziraphale's fingers running through Crowley's hair.

“Are you falling asleep?” Aziraphale said.

“Mm. Nearly.”

“You ought to eat something first. Get your blood sugar up.”

Crowley didn't have blood sugar. Or, if he did, it was exceedingly well-behaved and never did anything without explicit instructions from Crowley himself. Still, he didn't argue. Whenever they'd had sex that was little more rough than usual, Aziraphale would spend a little time afterwards fussing over Crowley, making him drink water, eat a snack, occasionally even offering a massage. It was overwhelmingly more to do with Aziraphale's needs than Crowley's, who was happy enough with a kiss and a cuddle and a good long sleep. But Crowley didn't mind. He'd move mountains for Aziraphale. And besides, it wasn't exactly a great hardship, popping squares of Dairy Milk while getting his feet rubbed.

With a click of his fingers, Aziraphale called out of the ether a bowl filled with chunks of watermelon. Crowley raised an eyebrow at him.

“Tropical.”

Doubt flickered across Aziraphale's features. “Did you want something else? I just thought this would help keep you hydrated as well, if you'd prefer-”

Before he could work himself into a tizzy, Crowley cut him off with practiced efficiency, slotting a piece of watermelon into Aziraphale's mouth before picking out his own. The melon was delicious, fresh and sweet with a perfect crunch.

“Of course,” said Aziraphale chewing thoughtfully, “it's not as good when it's been miracled. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have got something in.”

“Tastes fine to me,” said Crowley, opening his mouth to let Aziraphale feed him another cube.

They took it in turns to feed each other, and Aziraphale's free hand migrated from Crowley's hair to stroke thoughtlessly up and down the curve of his shoulder instead. When the bowl was empty, he set it down on the floor beside the sofa and settled back down.

“Oh, my dear,” he said kindly. “You look done in.”

Crowley, who had been very close to drifting asleep, grunted. “Busy day,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale kissed him on the forehead. “What do you say, you have a nap here – no, don't worry, I'm not going anywhere,” he added quickly, seeing the beginnings of a frown start on Crowley's forehead. “I was just going to suggest you have a nap now, and then when you've recharged a bit we can go upstairs and I'll run us a bath.”

The frown melted entirely, usurped by a look of total contentment. “That sssounds good,” Crowley sighed.

“Wonderful. Then, afterwards, we can... Well, put some aloe vera on your poor arse, firstly,” he said, making Crowley snort with laughter. He gave the aforementioned arse a wiggle, pleased to have had it remembered. “Then we'll go to bed, and in the morning we can get breakfast somewhere. How does that sound?”

Aziraphale's bed was not so big as Crowley's, nor half so modern. But it had a down-stuffed mattress topper, and a duvet the size of an ocean liner, and enough pillows that whatever weird position Crowley ended up in, he had something soft to curl himself around. Mostly, though, he curled himself around Aziraphale.

Crowley drifted off before he could give Aziraphale an answer. He wore a look of deep, warm contentment on his face, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling ever so gently as he smiled in his sleep.

Aziraphale watched him for a long time, stroking his shoulder in sleepy circles. Tomorrow, he knew, reality would intrude on them once more. There would be assignments and expectations, demands on their loyalty as well as their time and attention. But for now, they had this. And this was good.

And besides, whispered a very, very quiet part of Aziraphale's brain, who knew what the future might hold? Perhaps one day, things would be different. Stars would align, circumstances would arise, what had been left unsaid for so long would finally be brought kicking and wriggling into the light...

It seemed unlikely – wildly, unspeakably unlikely, it would take nothing less than the whole world turning on its head. But if there was anyone Aziraphale believed capable of such an upending, it was the creature at that moment snoring gently into his chest, a trickle of drool creeping out of the corner of his mouth. He'd turn the world upside down, and he'd do it with a smile on his face – and likely wearing a pair of very tight trousers. 

He burrowed his nose into the top of Crowley's head, breathing in the warm, sleepy smell of him. Aziraphale wasn't built for rebellion. He didn't have Crowley's knack for misbehaviour. He was better suited to a kind of quiet resistance, the subtle bending of this rule and that, disobedience without dissent. He only hoped that, when the time came (and he had to believe it was when, not if – had to, as improbable as it seemed), he would have the courage to see where his true loyalties lay.

Crowley shifted in his sleep. “'zir'phale?” he mumbled.

“Yes, darling. I'm here.”

He thought Crowley would fall back to sleep. Instead, he sat up slowly, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He looked down at Aziraphale, and seemed about to say something, but was interrupted by a sudden yawn. Aziraphale lifted Crowley's hand to his mouth and kissed the back of his fingers.

“How about that bath?” he offered.

The smile Crowley answered with was bright enough to burn away the last tendrils of worry in Aziraphale's mind. He'd be fine, he realised. With a smile like that to follow, how could he go wrong?


End file.
